Unfortunately, presumably due to some kind of scheduling conflict, the camera crew for this travelogue of England's second city could not arrange to be present on the day Mr Savalas was actually in Birmingham (as he constantly states he was). It could be argued that filming the commotion and traffic snarl-ups inevitably caused by the presence amongst the Brummie population of the dome-pated Italian-suited TV and movie star, would have gotten in the way of the main purpose of showing Birmingham in its best light. On the other hand it might have been better to have risked the wholesale jamming up of the city centre, since showing Birmingham in its best, or even a good light, appears to have been simply not possible.
Following a rustic introduction demonstrating a surprising amount - even to British viewers - of picturesque olde worlde village life to be found in the West Midlands, we soon enter the concrete jungle of what Telly calls "My kinda town". A vista of tower blocks, embodying the Brutalist pinnacle of Britain's most notorious period of ugly architecture, is a view that "took my breath away" - a reaction that seems surprising, coming as it does from a native of New York City. Scene after scene of metropolitan squalor passes before the camera. No doubt with an eye on cinema-goers from the nearby area, most cars that can be seen in the first half are from British Leyland, the local manufacturer. (Later on sanity prevails and marginally more palatable Fords begin to dominate). One seemingly ubiquitous car is the legendary Austin Allegro, commonly held to be the worst car in British automotive history. At this time, Leyland cars practically came out of the factory with a layer of underfloor rust built in. The vehicles criss-crossing the flyovers and motorways consequently fail to impart anything other than a sense of failure and economic decay. A quick tour of the variety of old-style cottage industries still clinging on, begins promisingly enough, but as the factories shown are increasingly dilapidated, signs hanging off and paint flaking, even Telly is forced to concede that this subsection of British small industry is all soon to be swept away. No mention of the Thatcherite destruction of manufacturing, three million unemployed and an entire generation of British workers that would end up on the scrapheap, but one mustn't expect too much.
The production's attempts to showcase Birmingham's better points are scarcely able to take a step forward without following it with two steps back. Shots of a disco nightclub containing what passed in those days for stylish young people, (as might have been seen in a cinema commercial for the local Indian restaurant) is followed by an outdoors Over-40s dance competition which is better imagined than described. On occasion, the hopelessness of the task is acknowledged by touches of sly humour pointing up the sheer banality of the images being displayed. To be fair to Birmingham, documentary short producer Harold Baim had come to film in the heart of England in 1981, the very nadir of Britain's post-war decline. And the interest is constantly piqued by the utter contrast between the parochial mediocrity on the screen and the smooth-as-chocolate tones of the baldheaded sex god.
In the end, this film is a curio of British cinema history, a joke made up by a Pythonesque satirist done completely for real and with the straightest of faces.
Following a rustic introduction demonstrating a surprising amount - even to British viewers - of picturesque olde worlde village life to be found in the West Midlands, we soon enter the concrete jungle of what Telly calls "My kinda town". A vista of tower blocks, embodying the Brutalist pinnacle of Britain's most notorious period of ugly architecture, is a view that "took my breath away" - a reaction that seems surprising, coming as it does from a native of New York City. Scene after scene of metropolitan squalor passes before the camera. No doubt with an eye on cinema-goers from the nearby area, most cars that can be seen in the first half are from British Leyland, the local manufacturer. (Later on sanity prevails and marginally more palatable Fords begin to dominate). One seemingly ubiquitous car is the legendary Austin Allegro, commonly held to be the worst car in British automotive history. At this time, Leyland cars practically came out of the factory with a layer of underfloor rust built in. The vehicles criss-crossing the flyovers and motorways consequently fail to impart anything other than a sense of failure and economic decay. A quick tour of the variety of old-style cottage industries still clinging on, begins promisingly enough, but as the factories shown are increasingly dilapidated, signs hanging off and paint flaking, even Telly is forced to concede that this subsection of British small industry is all soon to be swept away. No mention of the Thatcherite destruction of manufacturing, three million unemployed and an entire generation of British workers that would end up on the scrapheap, but one mustn't expect too much.
The production's attempts to showcase Birmingham's better points are scarcely able to take a step forward without following it with two steps back. Shots of a disco nightclub containing what passed in those days for stylish young people, (as might have been seen in a cinema commercial for the local Indian restaurant) is followed by an outdoors Over-40s dance competition which is better imagined than described. On occasion, the hopelessness of the task is acknowledged by touches of sly humour pointing up the sheer banality of the images being displayed. To be fair to Birmingham, documentary short producer Harold Baim had come to film in the heart of England in 1981, the very nadir of Britain's post-war decline. And the interest is constantly piqued by the utter contrast between the parochial mediocrity on the screen and the smooth-as-chocolate tones of the baldheaded sex god.
In the end, this film is a curio of British cinema history, a joke made up by a Pythonesque satirist done completely for real and with the straightest of faces.
